'Turn around," said Wardley-Fish, and, when Oscar hesitated, put both his hands on Oscar's narrow shoulders and did manually what could not be achieved with automatic. Oscar found himself facing a large mirror advertising Vedemma Curry Powder. Blue and yellow Indians in turbans bowed to each other all the way around the border. In the centre of all this obsequiousness stood Oscar Hopkins and Ian Wardley-Fish.

"By Jove," said Wardley-Fish, thumping his stick on the pavement. "Look at us. What a splendid pair of scoundrels."

Oscar, who had not changed his clothes, was puzzled to be included in this definition. He cocked his head and tried to assess his appearance critically.

Wardley-Fish saw the Odd Bod cock his head and bring his hands up to his lips, rubbing them together, like a praying mantis. He had been offensive to the Odd Bod. He had not intended to.

"Come," he said. "We're late."

Store Up Treasures for a Future Day

Wardley-Fish ran quickly and Oscar had no choice but to follow. They must find a coach to get them up to Epsom. Wardley-Fish tore through the Saturday crowds hoping all this huff and puff would drive the insult from the funny little fellow's head. But, dear me, it was true. Had not the Odd Bod, having just arrived at Oxford, wandered up and down the High Street without cap and gown without the bulldogs ever once thinking they should apprehend him? They had mistaken him for a grocer's clerk, perhaps, but never once did it occur to them he was a gentleman. You could not say the fault was with his tailor, for he had no tailor. His trousers were three inches too short and his frock coat was something left over from the time of Dr Newman. And, indeed, this last assessment was an accurate one, for the frock coat had belonged to the Reverend Mr Stratton and its poor condition was produced not merely by its considerable age but by the vicar's habit of stuffing windfalls into his pockets whenever the chance presented itself. They found a carriage and hired it to take them to Epsom. They were both excited, Wardley-Fish because he loved the races, and Oscar for so many reasons-because he would soon have money to pay his buttery account, because he was in London and the streets were filled with people, horses, carriages, ladies in bustles, children with hoops, men with three hats worn one atop the other, barrowfuls of pears and apples, a golliwog on stilts, tall houses with brass letter-flaps set into their front door.

They passed a theatre with crowds milling outside its door. Oscar asked if it was, indeed, what he imagined it to be.

"Have you never been?" asked Wardley-Fish.

"No, never."

"Would you like to go?"

Oscar hesitated. He saw the theatre with two sets of eyes, one his own, but one his father's. The second set saw the theatre steeped in sin.

"My father boasts that he has never read Shakespeare," he said. "Do you think that is peculiar?"

"Not at all. Would you like to go?"

"Yes."

"Good," Wardley-Fish struck his stick hard on the floor of the coach. "Then you shall, Odd Bod. I shall take you myself. I shall ensure it. I shall guarantee it," and he began to sing in a rich baritone:

Oscar and Lucinda

"Oh, I like the track, I love the track,

Tis torture sweet >.

Tis the scourge, the rack.

Tis the scourge, the rack. f. r *^

But I love the track, aloo alack,:•

I love the track, alack." ^ v

.. ' '•• ' " ' — ,

For a while he sang songs, offered his flask, thumped his stick, but after a while he became quiet and sat with his chin in his hand looking out of the window. Oscar, in order to cool his overheated system, took out his little traveller's Bible and began to read it. He was thus engaged, in the second chapter of Revelations, when a great, "Halloo," from Wardley-Fish made him jump.

"What are you reading, Odd Bod?"

Oscar held up the Bible. He was irritated. He did not like being called Odd Bod at all.

"For heaven's sake, man, we are going to the track.":., •-•

Oscar did not see the source of conflict., ",

"Then put the thing away," shouted Wardley-Fish.

"Do not call the Holy Bible a 'thing,' Fish. It is a blasphemy."

"Oh, Odd Bod, you are odd."

"My name is Hopkins or yours is Queer Fish." He stared at WardleyFish defiantly, but the Bible in his hand was shaking. He put it on his lap so it would not show.

"Is it true, Hopkins, that you are a literalist?" said Wardley-Fish quietly, politely, unexpectedly. Oscar was grateful for the Hopkins. "And do I believe that Balaam's ass really spoke to him in a human voice? Yes, of course. Although I hear at Oriel that I am quite out of fashion and everyone would have me believe that Jonah was not swallowed by the whale, that the mother of our Lord was not a virgin, and all this from people who have sworn their acceptance of the Thirty-nine Articles of Faith."

"So the ass really said: 1 am thy good and faithful ass. Why have you therefore smitten me thrice?' The ass spoke like this, to a man, in Greek?"

"I doubt it was Greek. Have you ever seen a starfish? Under the microscope, in cross section? Do you not think God created the starfish?"

"Of course," and Wardley-Fish who had, until that moment, been unscrewing his brandy flask, now screwed it up again and slid it back into his pocket.

oo

Store Up Treasures for a Future Day

"Then having Balaam's ass speak, even in Greek, would be a cornparatively easy thing to achieve."

"And do you accept the doctrine of eternal damnation?"

"Yes, of course."

There was a silence then. Wardley-Fish looked out of the window. Oscar, feeling the business not yet finished with, waited with his Bible on his lap.

"Do you accept the doctrine?" he asked at last.

"Yes," said Wardley-Fish, but he stayed looking out of the window and it was not until Epsom Downs came into view that he was able to rally himself.

He turned to Oscar with his face bright, but also serious. "Just five minutes," he said, "and when we are on the track do not rattle your sovereigns like that or you will shortly discover you do not have them. There are pickpockets everywhere. Also, when you get there the undertakers will be on to you. You are exactly the sort of chap they are waiting for. They can smell you. They will be full of advice for you, how you should lay a sov or two on such-and-such, but they only sell stiffs so you need not waste your time with them. Do you understand? Good. Now the next thing is to avoid behaving like a plunger. Plungers," said WardleyFish (who had, so little time before, been pleased to have the appearance of a scoundrel) "are a nuisance to everyone. West, the fellow on your staircase, is a plunger. They are the opium-eaters of the track. They are fools and madmen and are the reason the track is so discredited. All they have is a sordid appetite for gambling. That is West all over. He starts with a couple of sovs. It comes up trumps. Then he dabs it all down on the second and he has lost the lot."

"Please tell me what I should do." Oscar was being polite. He had no intention of following earthly, directions. But Wardley-Fish was so serious and tense that Oscar wished, with the salve of politeness, to ease whatever it was that gripped him.

"Firstly we will make a quiet entrance to the ring. Dressed as we are we will attract no attention. We will keep our own counsel, Odd Bod. We will ask no one's advice and when it is offered we will not respond. No one shall induce us to have a bet on a 'real jam.' "